Temper!
by Eoin
Summary: Mordred is not a friendly person. He's a bastard in fact and in personality. But he does, oddly enough, have one very good friend. Sian trusts Mordred implicitly, but begins to wonder whether his friend is as evil as others say.
1. Morgause's Command

Morgause's Command

* * *

Author's Note: I really enjoy Arthurian legend and this is my favorite of my adaptations. It's based mostly on the Tennyson, with bits of Malory and of historical evidence from the short film Arthur. As I'm currently enjoying writing it so much, hopefully I'll get beyond two installments.

* * *

The door to the library burst open and slammed shut behind Mordred. "Damn them! Damn them to hell!" he raged.

I rose from my desk, alarmed. "Mordred… what is it?"

He clutched a letter in his hand and waved it at me. "This… she… aargh!" He punched a wall.

"Mordred! Stop! Look – tell me what she wrote. It's from Morgause, right?"

He looked at the floor and nodded. "She told me… no, I don't want you involved."

I sighed and shook my head. "Mordred, whatever it is, I'll stick with you. You should know that."

He looked at me intently. "Are you sure? You would hate this."

I shrugged. "Well… I'd… I'd do anything for you."

He pursed his lips. "Very well. Morgause told me…" He dropped to a whisper and drew close to me. "She said that Arthur has no intention of passing the throne to me and that he'd do anything to prevent it. There are only two things that can prevent it: my death or Guenevere bearing an heir. They've been married for eight years, 'Sian, and there's been no heir."

I touched his shoulder. "She thinks he's plotting to kill you? He'd never do that."

He shook his head. "No. She said that… ach, 'Sian, it makes me furious," he said as he turned away, a hand to his temple.

I pushed him down on a bench and massaged his shoulders. He leaned back against me and sighed. "What did she write, Mordred?" I asked quietly.

"She wrote that she's prevented Guenevere from bearing a child."

Shock stopped my fingers for a moment. "How?"

"She didn't say… but she said that it's now my job and that I'll know what to do."

He turned to me and took my arm. "Sian, I don't want to do this. I'd be… you know I'd be content to serve a child of his. Morgause wants me on the throne – so that she can control everything. I know very few people with more knowledge and skill than she, and I'm not one of them. But that same skill would extend to punish me if I failed."

"Oh Mordred… what an evil woman," I said, sinking down onto the bench beside him.

He chuckled. "Who perhaps bore an evil child."

"You mustn't say such things!"

He laughed again, this time at me. "Sian, you're so silly! Still a superstitious country boy at heart, eh?" He grew serious again. "Sian, I don't want you involved in this in any way. You've heard nothing of it, eh?"

I sighed. "All right. I've never heard anything. But Mordred – if something drastic happens because of this… I want to be involved. We… we could run away and… start a farm."

He threw his head back and laughed. "Sian… sometimes I wonder if you say things just to cheer me up."

"God knows you always need it."

"There's no such thing as god, Sian, and I'm no farmer," he said as he rose to leave. He turned back before he reached the door and threw the letter in the fireplace.

* * *

Though the day had been bright and sunny, it was much cooler than it had been. Sian was a little disappointed, but after all it was May, that month of changing conditions. So much for the lusty month of May. Still, he was glad to be outside after being stuck in the library all day making twelve copies of Arthur's letter to his provincial governors. There were monks in the chapel – and he was no monk! – but he was one of the few who could decipher Arthur's hand and who could be trusted to interpret it properly. It was not for nothing that he practiced obeisance and honesty in court.

"Sian! What are you doing out here?"

Sian turned to see Mordred by the door staring guiltily at him.

"I'm potting plants. Milady said that the wall by the library was still covered with dead things from last year and that I must rejuvenate it."

Mordred gave him a thoughtful look. "Would you mind caring for a few plants for me in that case?"

"Of course."

"I'll fetch them, then."

Sian stared pensively at the petunia in his hands. Mordred had an herb garden of his own. Why would he need Sian to care for his flowers? He shook his head and put the petunia in the dirt, humming to himself. It was nice to be back in the dirt after such a long winter. Though he was always loathe to plant, once he was doing it it pleased him. He heard laughter and turned to see the queen leading a man into the garden.

"Lance, look at – oh – what are you doing out here?"

Sian waved the potted petunia. "Doing the planting you asked of me, milady."

"Ah. Yes. Well. Lance, come away. We'll visit my flower garden another day."

Lancelot ignored her and instead walked over to Sian.

"What's your name, boy?'

"Artesian, milord."

"Artesian?" the tall knight snorted. "I've never heard that name before."

"Me either. I mean… I've never met anyone else with it, milord."

"And you're responsible for the queen's flowers?"

"No, milord. I mind the library and the plants in its courtyard."

"So you can read and write? Who's your father, boy?"

"Nobody, milord."

"Nobody? Did you hear that, Guenevere?" he laughed. "He must be one of those bastards Arthur's so fond of adopting into his court."

Guenevere shrugged. "Arthur values the boy." Sian's heart gladdened to hear that his king valued him, but he kept his face carefully blank. Lancelot turned his attention back to his prey.

"Can you fight, boy?"

"No, milord."

"What? Do you have no ambition at all then?"

Sian flushed at the jab and met Guenevere's eyes. He was unable to speak. Lancelot looked between them, suddenly thoughtful. Finally he took Guenevere's elbow and led her away.

"Come, milady."

Sian turned back to the flowers and would have dashed them all to the ground but he stopped himself. Was he trying to provoke the wrath of the famed Lancelot? He'd never seen the man before, but his legend remained even when the knight himself was off questing. But Sian could never reveal his ambition, his desires, not even to Mordred. He plunged his fingers into the dirt, hoping to find solace there. Sian knew Arthur thought he'd stay as a scribe, or perhaps become a monk. Yet though Sian liked and respected Arthur, God knew he hated what his king represented.

"Sian!"

Sian turned, startled out of his thoughts by a strange, terrified instinct – but it was only to see Mordred, carrying three small potted plants.

"Here, I brought them. You must place them in partial sunlight and water them every other day. But take care not to touch the leaves or flowers with your bare hands or to inhale their scent."

Sian eyed him warily. "A dangerous plant, then?"

Mordred shrugged. "It can be."

After a moment's hesitation Sian made up his mind. "All right, Mordred. Put them here."

"Thanks, Sian." Mordred touched Sian's shoulder lightly as he left.

Sian stared at the plants, hands on his hips and his head tilted. Could this have something to do with Morgause's command? A chill ran down his spine, and he knew that it was not because of the day's chilly winds. He couldn't believe Mordred was following through with it. Perhaps Mordred was more afraid of his mother's wrath than Sian thought – and perhaps he really did want to become king. Sian shook his head and banished his dark thoughts. He would trust his friend. God knew they were each other's only friends, though they harbored secrets from one another.


	2. Theft

Theft

* * *

It was late May. Most of the trees had already exchanged their blossoms for young green leaves. Sian lay facedown and smelled the earth. It was very peaceful. The sun warmed his back and made his hair shine golden. He heard the swoosh of approaching footsteps in the grass and looked up to see Mordred approaching, white hair glowing in the sun, dressed in fine dark linens, and holding a small bowl.

"Sian!" Mordred called, matching his smile. He flopped down beside him. "I finally managed to get away. Look, I brought you strawberries."

"Strawberries! Where on earth did you find these?" Sian asked, popping a tiny red berry into his mouth and savoring the sweet yet tangy taste.

"I'm not sure if they're earthly," Mordred joked. "I stole them from Morgause's table."

Sian froze, another strawberry halfway to his mouth. "From Morgause?"

Mordred popped one into his mouth. "Don't worry, Sian. She won't hunt us down over strawberries."

Sian rolled over onto his back and put a hand over his eyes. The sun was so bright! "What have you been doing for the past two weeks, Mordred? I've hardly seen you and not even spoken to you. Have you been attending Morgause the whole time?"

Mordred sighed loudly as he too lay back on the grass and stretched. "Yes, sadly, I've spent nearly every waking hour for twelve days attending the queen of the Orkneys, waiting on her and her brats hand and foot, serving her every whim."

Sian sat up and gave him an odd look, half-amused, half-concerned. "What do you mean? What has she been making you do?"

"In her court she's much more industrious, but here she's lazy. She sits around and watches her boys shoot, fight, ride, or play games. I serve as someone to make comments to or to be beaten at games by my younger brothers. I must never beat them in anything, though she and I both know I could beat them in most things."

"What is her purpose here?"

"She's not clear about it. I think she wants Gawain, her eldest, to become a knight under Arthur instead of going to him after being knighted by King Lot. I think she also wants to check on me and get a better idea of what's going on at Camelot. I suppose I'm not a good enough spy – no, don't give me that look, Sian, I'm not spying on Arthur."

Sian gave an uncertain half-chuckle. "But King Lot is no longer King Lot."

Mordred nodded. "Sorry. Force of habit. Morgause always made us call him king, though he lost to Arthur when I was… I think… thirteen. Personally, I think she wants one of us to become king of England – whether me, Lot, or one of her boys – so that she can control everything."

"Control, control, control. Can't she be just a normal woman?"

Mordred laughed. "No chance in hell. My aunt Morgan is even stranger. They call her fay for a reason, I think."

Sian looked uncertainly at him. "But… neither of them use… magic… do they?"

Mordred shrugged. "Everyone says they do. But really – what is magic? Is it praying to your gods? Is it curing someone of illness – or killing them? They're frightening enough without magic. Why is it so warm today?" He stripped off his shirt and lay facedown on the grass. Sian stared at his back, then reached forward and traced the scars across it.

"Some of those are from battle," Mordred said, his eyes closed and head pillowed on his hands. "A few are from standard childhood accidents. Those – the ones you're touching right now – are… well. When I was eleven, I was accused of stealing something and I refused to return it or repent so Lot had me whipped. He'd been waiting to do it for years. I never really knew why he hated me, except for that I was equally nasty to him. But when I was seventeen my mother told me that Lot's not my father. I was very surprised, naturally, but that decided me: I left his court two weeks later and traveled around a bit before I arrived at Arthur's court."

"Who is your father?"

Mordred shrugged, something he managed to do even while horizontal. "It doesn't matter. But look – I'm sure you've had a much happier past."

Sian sighed and lay back down. "Well… my mother was a Saxon slave and my father a Norse warrior. My mother was killed in a raid when I was seven and so I was raised in a monastery, where I learned my letters and numbers. When I was twelve my father was wounded in battle and he died very slowly and painfully from a rotting of the wound site. Once he was actually on his deathbed he was brought to the monastery where it was determined that he was my father – based on my appearance, what the monks knew about me, and this ring, which he had given my mother and she had given me. Yet a year later the monastery was attacked by a band of Norsemen who did not respect Christianity and I was captured as a slave. After two years I was sold to someone who then passed through Camelot and Arthur bought me out of pity."

Mordred sat up suddenly, shocked. "You're Arthur's slave?"

Sian threw up his hands. "I don't know what my status is. He formally released me when he bought me but I don't know how indebted I am to him."

"You haven't sworn an oath to him, have you?"

"No, I've just been packed off to the library to rot."

Mordred chuckled. "Well, he does care for you. He speaks of you favorably."

"Does he?"

"Indeed. If you play your cards right, you'll earn an even better position. He thinks you innocent and somewhat simple but knows you have a scholarly aptitude."

Sian looked at the clouds. One made a shape like a great serpent. "What good would his favor do me?"

"It would at least protect you in times of trouble."

"I hope so."

* * *

Warmth. Dark. Quiet. Languid half-thoughts of trees, water, birds. Noise.

A panicked fumbling at the door brought Sian out of slumber. He half-sat-up and stared, wide-eyed, mind full of the bogeymen of dreams. Finally the door opened and in the torchlight creeping in from the hall Sian saw Mordred, all shadow and darkness. Mordred came towards Sian's bed with a half-whispered plea.

"Sian, help me, I'm hurt."

Sian exchanged his nighttime fears for a fresh set of worries, threw off his blankets, and grabbed his shirt from the floor. Mordred took his hand of his shaking arm, revealing a gash that ran from his little finger and across nearly to his elbow. He and Sian wrapped the shirt tightly around his arm and Sian held it with his hands and his concern.

"Mordred, what happened to you?"

Mordred shook his head, still breathing raggedly. "Morgause, Sian… she… she punished me."

Sian stared at him in shock. "Your own mother would do that to you? You could have died!"

Mordred gave him a wan smile. "Sian, I-"

The door burst open and slammed against the wall. A tall, dark, broad woman stood in the doorway holding a candle, finely clad and malevolent: Morgause. She closed the door, put the candlestick on the low table near the empty fireplace, and stepped toward them, looking from one face to another. Sian involuntarily glanced at Mordred, who stared at his mother with a mixture of defiance and fear.

"Who are you?" Morgause finally asked, looking at Sian.

"Artesian, milady," he said nervously.

Her brow furrowed. "You're one of Arthur's boys?"

"I suppose, milady."

She reached out to touch him, but Mordred raised a hand to block her. "No, Morgause. You will not touch him."

"Won't I?" Suddenly she raged. "You ate my stolen fruit too, didn't you? Well? Didn't you?"

"Yes," Sian squeaked (something that surprised even him) at the same time that Mordred said "No."

Morgause's eyes widened, then she chuckled. "Come here, boy," she said to Sian.

"No! You shall not harm him!" Mordred repeated forcefully.

Morgause considered them and a malevolent smile stretched across her face. "Do you know what he is, boy?" she said softly, her eyes fixed on Sian. Her voice had become steel. "He is the bastard son of a queen, forced on her by her own brother. He has killed men as a coward would – by stabbing them in the back, slitting their throats, poisoning them. He raped a girl. He stabbed one of his own brothers. He plots against the king, and even now," she said, her smile growing as she played her trump card, "he is poisoning the queen. He is not your friend, Artesian. He is a villain. He is not kind to you because he likes you, but because he is using you and your position with Arthur against the king."

When her list of indictments finally ceased the room seemed oddly silent. Morgause held out her hand to Mordred. He looked at Sian, whose eyes were on the floor. Mordred removed Sian's bloodied shirt from his arm, rose from the cot, and followed Morgause out.

When the door closed Sian let out a low cry and collapsed on his cot, hugging his pillow and the bloodied shirt.

* * *

"Gone? What do you mean, they're gone?" Arthur said, though it was closer to shouting than speaking, as was evinced by Sian's ability to hear him through rows of books and a stone wall. Not surprisingly, the door between Arthur's study and the library swung open and the king strode into the library with his page and, as always, Lancelot in the rear. Sian only allowed himself to look up from his work when the king drew near.

"Sian! When was the last time you saw Mordred?"

Sian tilted his head and thought for a moment. "I believe it was two days ago." Sian had been dozing under a tree (his favorite activity) when he had been woken by muted swearing to see Mordred leaning against a tree probing his arm. Mordred had turned when Sian called his name and after a moment fled.

"Did he say anything about leaving?"

"No, milord. He said nothing."

Arthur held Sian's eyes for a moment, seeking the truth, then turned brusquely and left. The door to his study slammed loudly, surprising Sian. Arthur rarely grew angry, and he never, ever slammed doors. He felt a pang: Mordred hadn't said goodbye. They hadn't even spoken since Morgause's… what? Confession? Condemnation? Curse? That was six days ago. Sian still didn't know what to think, and god knew he had spent hours and sleepless nights wrestling with her words. If they were true, then Mordred had deceived him completely. If they were false, then he had done his friend wrong by not seeking him out. Sian ached inside, and he didn't know why. True, Mordred was his friend – his only friend at that – but if he had used him then there was no reason Sian should feel remorse. Especially not this much. Sian knew there was nothing he could do about the situation – but he still had to calm his own conscience. And if Mordred came back, what then? Possibly the worst part about the whole affair was that Sian had nobody to talk to. The one person he could have talked to about it was the basis of the whole affair, and was now gone. Perhaps it was Sian's fault – perhaps Mordred had left with Morgause because he thought Sian believed Morgause. Or perhaps he knew the game was up and he had to leave. Sian shook his head. He was getting nowhere with himself. Better to not think about it. He picked up his pen and bent back to his copying.


	3. Question

Question

* * *

Mordred stopped his horse on top of the hill and smiled. Camelot looked so beautiful on a bright summer's day like this. The bright blue sky was dotted with brilliant white clouds, and interspersed among verdant fields the gray city shone almost white. Gawain rode up beside him and gasped.

"Mordred! It's Camelot!"

Mordred glanced at him, half-amused. "Yes, it is."

"I've never seen it like this before."

"No, indeed; traveling with your mother a gloomy cloud is cast over everything."

"That's not true."

"No? When she was here it rained for days."

Gawain sighed loudly. "Would you please stop dragging our mother into everything?"

Mordred's lips quirked. "Very well. Shall we move on?"

The two young men brought their horses into a gentle walk, which angered Gawain's charger, tethered as it had been to Gawain's gray mare. Mordred cast a dour look back at the white stallion. That horse had been making things difficult for the whole trip. It didn't make things easier that the horses they were riding were both slow and, though Gawain's mare was gentle, Mordred's old brown gelding was almost as bad-tempered as the charger.

"Gawain, when we arrive, I'm going to take you directly to Arthur," Mordred said.

"What – no rest for the weary?"

"The horses will be well cared for in the stables. But I think it's important that he recognizes us as soon as possible, both to improve his impression of our honesty and to preclude any accusation from Morgause. The most important thing to him – or one of them, at least – is honesty. Don't give him any suspicion of duplicity."

Gawain nodded. "Of course. I'm not concerned – he has nothing to suspect."

Mordred pursed his lips. "Don't be so sure." He ignored the wary look Gawain gave him. "Come on!" He spurred his horse into a trot, laughing to himself at the protestations of his younger half-brother.

* * *

"Remember what I said," Mordred muttered to Gawain as they waited to be received.

"Stop worrying," Gawain replied, his eyes wandering around the hall. "I feel so naked," he added, patting his hips. Mordred also felt the absence of his blades.

"One does get used to it. No one may go armed in Arthur's halls."

"At home, we can."

"Camelot is extremely different from Lothain. When Morgause was here, you wouldn't have noticed it as much, but now that you're alone, it's much easier to see."

A page approached them. "Milords?"

Mordred nodded to him and rose from their bench. "We're ready."

The page opened the door and bowed them in. Mordred led Gawain towards the Table Round, noting some conspicuous absences as they approached. Mordred met Arthur's eyes and knelt, head bowed.

"Mordred," Arthur said icily, recognizing him. Mordred rose and bowed, betraying no emotion.

"Your majesty. May I present my brother, Gawain?"

Arthur nodded towards Gawain. "Gawain. What brings you back to Camelot, after such a hasty and unexplained exit?"

"Milord, may I answer?" Mordred interjected hastily.

Arthur frowned at him. "No, you may not. Gawain, speak."

Gawain flushed. "I – I wish to become a knight, your majesty," he said.

"Indeed? And that could not be accomplished at Lothain?"

Gawain glanced at Mordred, who gestured for him to continue. "Milord, I would fain be knighted by your hand."

Arthur quelled the murmur of his Table with a dark look. "Would you? And Mordred? What brings you back here?" Arthur rose from the Table and stepped off the dais, stopping in front of the two young men. "Simply as an escort for your brother? I would find that hard to believe." He dropped his voice to a whisper. "I doubt you have much kind-heartedness in you. Did Morgause, perhaps, send you back here? Does she believe her mission incomplete?"

Mordred took a step back, heart pounding wildly. "Sir, believe me or not, but I am here as an escort and a sponsor for my brother and because I much prefer Camelot to Lothain."

Arthur looked Mordred in the eye and in the soul, a look that no one else could do so well. "Do you?" he said softly. He spun on his heel, stepping back up to the dais. "Is there a knight here willing to sponsor Gawain, son of Lot of Lothain?"

Sir Lancelot rose almost immediately, with Sir Bors following after a moment's hesitation. Arthur nodded. "Very well. Sir Bors, take him in hand. Make sure nothing is amiss."

"Milord?" Lancelot queried.

Arthur waved a hand. "If you wish." He turned back to Mordred. "Are you sure Morgause has not given you any… special instructions?"

"Milord, we left without her knowledge and against her wishes."

"Did you? Well then, would it surprise you to know that Guenevere is dying?"

Mordred gasped. "What?" He met Sir Lancelot's eyes, and read a silent confirmation there. He pursed his lips and again took a knee. "Milord, if you would allow it, I would save her."

Arthur laughed. "You think you can do what herbwives and priests, all older and wiser than you, could not?"

"Yes. I could. I have more knowledge and experience with more ways to die than any of them," he snapped, looking up at Arthur.

After a moment's hard, penetrating stare, Arthur threw up his hands. "Very well. Go!"

Mordred rose, bowed, and left the hall at a fast walk. He led Gawain into a narrow corridor, then finally turned and faced him, shaking his head. "That was dangerous."

Gawain nodded. "I noticed."

Mordred ran his hands through his hair. "I can't believe – aargh!" He punched the stone wall.

"It'll work out. I've been well trained. They can't fault me."

"I'm not talking about you. But – fine. Go be knighted. Do what he will never let me do."

Gawain shook his head. "I don't understand… why would the King never knight you?"

Mordred gave him a curious look. "You don't know?"

"Is it because you're a bastard?" Watching Mordred's twitching face, Gawain hastily added, "I know we were awful to you about it when we were young, but I know you better now. Agravain's still rude – but he's that way to everyone."

Mordred laughed a little. "You're still so young and… and… naïve. For all your size and prowess you're still just a boy. You've never even been in battle or left England or… or killed."

Gawain stepped closer to the shorter man. "I am not a boy. I've been trained by great men and I've served my time under Sir Farlan – a better man than you by far."

"Indeed?" Mordred laughed. "A simpler man. One who is not complicated by the questions of life – one whose prospects for a good or easy life were not destroyed by his situation of birth." He met Gawain's angry stare for a moment, then broke it and turned away, saying over his shoulder, "I now have the task of healing the Queen. I'll see you at your knighting." He turned a corner and proceeded rapidly to Guenevere's chambers, fuming. How dare Gawain insist that he was the better man just because he was bigger and stronger and of good birth? Mordred supposed that Gawain's earlier prejudices, encouraged as they were by both his parents, had not wholly faded. His thoughts turned to Artesian as he passed the library. He hoped that the boy had not turned against him because of Morgause's accusations. Yet he would be very busy for days or even weeks now. Perhaps Artesian would grow impatient at Mordred's prolonged absence and worry that his friend was angry with him if he did not receive a visit – or at least a message. Mordred decided that he must send a page to Artesian as soon as possible. He turned a corner and almost walked into a guardsman.

"Ho! Didn't hear you coming," the man chuckled.

"I have a quiet step," Mordred said.

"Indeed. But you can proceed no further."

"I must. The king has approved me to attend the queen."

"She is very ill. It would be dangerous for you. It cannot be allowed."

"I am a healer, sir."

"Ah," the guardsman said. "That changes things."

"Indeed," Mordred said ironically. The guard stepped aside and Mordred swept past him. He pushed open the door to the queen's sitting room. Two women were inside. The room smelled much closer than Mordred remembered. He gave them a mock bow and went to the door of her chamber, pausing to listen at the wood. After a moment he entered. His brow furrowed as he saw Guenevere's pale face and heard her labored breathing. He lifted her eyelids and winced at the yellowed color.

"Nurse," he called. One of the women came to him. "Go to the stables and fetch my bags – ask for Mordred's things. Bring them to my chamber and then bring me the brown leather bag with the plants broidered on it. The bag that smells odd."

The woman curtsied. "Yes, milord."

Mordred turned back to Guenevere and rolled up his sleeves.

* * *

Arthur looked up from his desk. "Who's there?"

Mordred stepped forward hesitantly into the candlelight. "It's Mordred, sir."

"Mordred!" Arthur looked surprised. He rubbed his face with his hands. "What brings you here at this hour?"

"I would speak with you, milord."

"Well, then… sit down. And fetch me another candle."

Mordred looked around Arthur's study and located a heavy, thick candle on a shelf. He brought it over to the desk and lit it off a stub on the fading candelabra. He sat down and looked down at his hands.

"What is it, Mordred?" Arthur said quietly, leaning back in his chair and taking off his glasses. Mordred lifted his eyes to study his king's face. He had never seen Arthur wear glasses before. He looked old and weary in the dim candlelight – a man haunted by the past and uncertain of the future.

"Milord, I know what the cause of Guenevere's illness was. I have treated her for it. She will live and should recover soon."

Arthur nodded. "Good. Very good." He pinched the bridge of his nose.

"Milord, pardon me for asking… are you not well?"

"What?" Arthur looked up, surprised. "Oh. No. I'm fine. Just tired and worried." He leaned forward. "Mordred, I want to know – what was the cause? Or perhaps I should say… who?"

Mordred bit his lip. "Milord, I am sorry. I cannot tell you."

Arthur gave him an incredulous look. "You cannot tell me?"

Mordred shook his head. "Believe me, milord, it would be better for you, for Guenevere, and for me."

"For the Queen," Arthur said, suddenly cold. "You will refer to her as the Queen or her Majesty."

Mordred stared at him. "Very well," he finally said. "But milord, I promise you: this will never happen again."

"How can you promise that unless you say it was you who caused the illness?"

"Milord, were I to poison her and then return here to heal her… I would have to be incredibly foolish."

"Yes."

"Milord, please. The drug that caused the disease – the poison, if you will – is made of plants that are only grown in a certain region in the Near East. It is very difficult and expensive to make, and cannot be easily obtained. The antitoxin is equally difficult to obtain. I have it in sufficient quantities, but I would not be able to replenish my supply until I return to the Near East."

"You expect to?"

Mordred shrugged. "Eventually."

"Who else has been there?"

"I cannot say for sure. But one more thing – it would take an expert to minister the proper dosage so as to create a lengthy illness and avoid suspicion."

"And are you an expert?"

Mordred returned Arthur's gaze. "I am."

"Who else?"

"I only know of two others. You can guess who they are."

Arthur leaned back in his chair. "I don't want to believe it."

Mordred shrugged. "Believe what you will. I'm not suggesting anything."

"Are you certain that nothing else could have caused this?"

"No, I'm not, but all the signs are present, and it is reacting to my antitoxin. However, if someone else were afflicted with similar symptoms…"

"There is one other: the boy Artesian."

Mordred started. "Artesian?" He rose. "I must go to him."

"No! Wait. Sit down."

"Milord, I must... Very well."

"Good. Now, Mordred, are you certain she is recovering?"

"Yes, I am. She grew visibly better in the few hours since I administered the drug. I don't want you to visit her tomorrow, but the day after will, I'm sure, be safe."

"I haven't seen my wife in almost two weeks."

"I am sorry. But I promise you that, in the unlikely case that she worsens, I will send for you."

"Good." Arthur took a closer look at Mordred. "When did you last sleep?"

Mordred waved his hand. "It doesn't matter. Well… two nights ago. But when I was assisting with an epidemic in Tel Aviv I was awake for six days. I find that something like that excites the blood, it… well… never mind."

"Mordred, I would like to knight you."

Mordred twitched, surprised by the sudden change of direction. "Knight me, milord?"

"Yes. By my own hand."

"Milord, I – I have never squired. I am not…"

"Not ready? You fought in a war, did you not?"

"Yes, I did, but… I am not a man for your Table. I am not worthy."

Arthur looked surprised. "Why do you say that?" Seeing Mordred's hesitance, he shook his head. "That's for me to decide, and I believe that you have virtue. You clearly have courage and skill, and I believe you have some honor, loyalty, justice, and truth in you. I would rather you live at Camelot and follow my law than that of another."

Mordred swallowed and bowed his head. "I would be honored to be a knight at your Table, your majesty."

* * *

Artesian opened his eyes and blinked uncertainly. He glanced around the room, trying to relieve his confusion. He was in his own chamber… the weak sunlight creeping in through his window, overhung as it was by a large, gnarled willow, suggested it to be midmorning… and that horrible, acrid odor was likely from the black, smoking mass in the fireplace. He tried to reconstruct a chain of events. The last thing he remembered clearly was feeling extremely sick and dizzy. He must have swooned… and then been brought back to his own bed. That was probably yesterday evening. He remembered some fleeting bits of dreams. He thought with a sudden pang of Mordred, whose white hair had inhabited more than a few of those dreams. Artesian wondered if Mordred would ever return to Camelot. He spotted a bowl on the table by his bed and reached over, hoping for water, but a sudden pang in his belly made him lay back. The nausea had returned, and he could feel a headache coming on.

The door to his chamber creaked open, and through his pain saw a halo of white hair.

"Mordred!" he gasped.

Mordred carried a pitcher, and he filled the bowl and administered water to Artesian. "I'm glad to see you awake and feeling better," he murmured.

Artesian shook his hair out of his eyes and lay back. "I tried to sit up and then felt much worse," he whispered. "When did you arrive?"

"Four days ago. I'm sorry I didn't come to see you. I've been… occupied."

"Four days? Then… how long have I been out?"

"I was told six days."

Artesian reached up and touched Mordred's face. "When did you last sleep?"

Mordred smiled. "Don't worry about me. My other tasks being completed, I'm here now just for you."

"Other tasks? What have you been doing?"

Mordred sighed, glanced around the room, and pulled a chair over to the bed. "Do you feel up to the whole story? Good. Five days after we left here, Gawain came to me and told me he wanted to return to Camelot. I heard him out, thought about it, and decided that it was not such a bad idea. Gawain got Gareth to occupy Morgause and under cover of darkness we crept off. Gawain wanted to become a knight under Arthur, you see, and his wish was granted, which certainly surprised me. I, however, learned that Guenevere was deathly ill, so I closeted myself in her chambers for days. When I reported to Arthur that she was on the mend, he proposed that I join Gawain in becoming a knight at the Table Round!" Mordred spread his arms, and Artesian looked again at the white chemise he was wearing. "However… I also learned that Guenevere was not the only one afflicted. I tended to you, did my vigil, had a little ceremony, and came right back over here. So, 'Sian: feel better?"

Artesian looked at him curiously. "I suppose. But… what was I sick with? And what is that horrible smell?"

Mordred suddenly looked tired. "It's… I'm burning some dead plants. Don't worry about it. You won't get sick with that again. I am extremely glad, though, to see that you're so much improved. I believe that I was not allowed to discover your illness until Guenevere was on the mend. Arthur must have wanted to make sure that there was enough of the medicine for her. I have almost none left. I… I'm sure it will be enough. Speaking of which…" He picked up a packet from the table and disclosed a foul-smelling greenish paste. "Eat this. I know it's disgusting. Try very hard not to retch. It's the last of it."

Artesian made a face and did his best to eat the paste. His eyes watered and he quickly chased the drug down with a bowlful of water.

Mordred smiled faintly. "Good. Now, I'm going to bed." He threw the leaf wrapping in the fire and closed the door quietly behind him.

Artesian lay back in his blankets and made a face again. That was really foul. His eyes fell on the fireplace again, and he threw off his blankets and went over to it. He picked up the poker and pulled apart that black mass. It was plant matter, and looked like an herb. Some dirt had been dropped in as well. Artesian rocked back on his haunches, thinking. Why would Mordred want to burn a plant instead of tossing it in the compost heap? If the plant had been dead, why was it taking so long to burn, why was it smoking so much, and why was there dirt on it? It all suggested a hasty attempt to destroy a plant. Artesian thought of the herb that Mordred had asked him to care for. Was this the same plant? Was Mordred trying to destroy evidence? Artesian shook his head. His headache was getting worse. He stood up and considered himself. He didn't feel very dizzy or sick, and he had not been told to stay in bed. However, he was also unwashed and fairly hungry. He went into his box, looking for a fresh tunic, and put his concerns at the back of his mind.


End file.
